


Take a Third Option

by Mithrigil



Category: Gensou Suikogaiden, Suikoden II
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, M/M, No Mr. Latkje I expect you to dine, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 03:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrigil/pseuds/Mithrigil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suikogaiden Chapter 3. Nash is shit out of luck escaping from the Highland camp. But he has to have <i>some</i> tricks still up his sleeve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take a Third Option

They say that the more time you spend on the wrong side of the law, the easier it gets. Whoever “they” are, Nash completely disagrees with them right about now. He’s lost his guide to the True Runes (not that Sierra was much of a help at anything), he’s been on the wrong end of Luca Blight’s sword twice, and now deprived of both those things he’s all but lost in the woods somewhere outside Greenhill, with no food, no money, no stars to tell the direction by, and an uncomfortable itch where the Highland uniform rubbed him the wrong way in the kind of place he can’t scratch.

This is the sort of thing he really should write back to his boss about. Priests love stories. Especially ones about lost souls who need their help and guidance right about now. Seriously. Right about now. _Any time now._

At least he can get out of the uniform. In fact, it’s probably prudent of him to. Not only does it itch in said awkward places (and that better not be infectious, the last thing he wants is Highland crabs), it’s bright blazing white and blue, and that’s not going to do Nash any favors in this forest. So he finds a thick enough cache of trees and strips it off. Really, that blue is even more of a beacon than the Harmonian cerulean Nash is thankful not to wear. And sure enough, the itch subsides, thankfully due to no more than shoddy workmanship in the crotch. Where are they impressing their sempsters from, Kobold village? Come to think of it, he’s never seen a Kobold wear pants --

“Well, lookee here,” says a Highland-accented voice that apparently cares nothing for caches or clustered trees. “Hey, Culgan, it’s that Harmonian rat Luca told us about.”

Now, Nash has had years of training in the vaunted art of not getting caught flat-footed. The trouble with said training is that when he actually _is_ caught flat-footed (in what are supposed to be rare incidents but are becoming decidedly less so the more this adventure goes on), he suffers a few crucial moments of what’s probably supposed to be self-recrimination but is actually a kind of subdued panic, because really he’s _not supposed to get caught flat-footed_. Or in this case, with his pants down. Literally.

So, what is there to do but pull them up the rest of the way and turn to address the sword at his throat? The Highlander holding the sword is rather obviously the Flaming General himself, Seed the Bastard, red hair and brazen grin and all. And General Culgan, over his shoulder, has his arms crossed in the very picture of dry implacability. Nash thinks Culgan would do a bishop proud. 

“If you think you’re out of the woods, you’re mistaken,” Culgan says, huffs out a disapproving curl of air. “You seem to be good at getting out of scrapes. So get out of this one.”

Nash flashes his best grin, and wonders if being shirtless and unfastened helps it any. “Gentlemen,” he says, stalling for time and cursing the day Luca Blight was born to terrorize Highland and Harmonia. “I’m flattered that you want a demonstration of my abilities --”

“Oh, are you offering?” Seed asks, tilting the sword just slightly, almost like a quick breeze through Nash’s bangs. “I hear you pretty First Class boys like to give shows to the bishops. Is that what you mean?”

Nash can feel his grin wavering grimaceward, straining his jaw. “Actually, that’s just a rumor! First Class citizens aren’t allowed to be in shows! We’re barely allowed to even go to the theater without it being disrespectful. Or dishonorable. Or something.” Since it’s pointless to look at the sword when it’s this close, Nash darts a quick glance off into the trees. Nope, no way out, not with Culgan also armed and ready and too many trees at his back, and all of Nash’s kit and provisions just one step out of reach. What he wouldn’t give for even Grosser Fluss right now. There’s no need to tell friend from foe when he’s got no friends in the world. “But I’m a good whistler.”

“I bet you are,” Seed says, and it’s condescending enough that gravity itself thrills with another unit of sarcasm. “Is that what they teach you in the Guild? You’re a Guild boy, aren’t you? That’d explain why you’ve got the balls to sneak into our camp but not the brains to escape it.”

“You know, if I were from the Guild, I wouldn’t be at liberty to say.” Really, that sounded so much better in his head.

Funny or not, it still amuses Seed, or maybe See just smiles like that all the time. “Culgan, get his sack.”

Well, that’s just plain unacceptable, so Nash takes a breath, risks his neck, and reaches out to swipe it first. It earns him the swat across the jaw he expected, but from the flat of Seed’s blade, not the edge. Good. They want him alive.

At least there’s something to be done about that.

“Not so fast, pretty boy,” Seed says, and now that he’s made his position on Nash’s face abundantly clear (Runes alive, that smarts) he seems to have turned his sword’s attentions to Nash’s scalp. It shouldn’t be possible for a blade to toy with Nash’s hair. It apparently is. _Highlanders._

Culgan, his sword out now as well, grabs Nash’s coat, shirt, and provisions, and takes note of both blades of Grosser Fluss, bound carefully in the bundle.

Nash can’t help the “Wait!” that escapes his lips, and he doesn’t regret saying it, but stalling with something like _wait_ means he needs an idea, and fast.

“Oh?” Seed asks, which at least gives Nash the precious seconds he needs. “Looks like someone’s got a last request. Don’t they teach you to keep your mouth shut when you’re being interrogated?”

“No,” Nash says, as natural as banter in a bar, “they teach us to keep our mouths open.”

He doesn’t regret it, precisely. After all, it’s going to work. But the wolfish grin Seed gives him still sends a chill down Nash’s spine, and contrary to the romance novels and operas of villainous ravishment, it doesn’t turn to heat when it reaches Nash’s groin.

Well, it’s not the first time Nash has put his body on the line to get out of this sort of predicament. But honestly, after Sierra took his blood, nothing else quite compares.

“So _that’s_ what you Guild boys are good for, is it?” Seed leers down the length of his blade. Nash tries to play up the wariness in his eyes. It must work, or work enough, because Seed tilts up his jaw and laughs. “Get a load of this, Culgan. He thinks he can _talk_ his way out of us dragging him back to Prince Luca.”

Nash shakes his head, fidgets with the flap of his pants, and tries not to think about the sword hanging over him. “I never said anything about talking.”

“Oh, now? Then why don’t you show me just how good you are at keeping your mouth open?”

Well, Nash certainly gapes.

It must be encouraging. “Culgan, take over,” Seed says, and sheathes his sword once it’s clear that Culgan’s complied. At least now the sword is pointed at the back of Nash’s head, not the front; it might be harder to keep track of, but his skull is thicker back there. Seed undoes his pants, and Nash gulps, which is probably just as enticing as it is reflexive because Seed’s cock has evidently already started to swell. “C’mon, pretty boy, I’ll even trust you not to bite it off. Here. Have fun.”

There’s a witty retort that Nash is supposed to make, but he can’t quite conjure it up: he just leans forward, lowers his tongue and covers his teeth and takes Seed in.

With a cock in his mouth, it’s harder to think of ways to stall for time than Nash thought it would be. The course is pretty evident -- it’s not the first blowjob he’s given, after all, and Nash won’t deny that the whole scenario has a certain kind of thrill in it, like the thrill of a well-kept secret but, well, lower -- and soon enough, the act itself is too distracting to machinate through. Seed tastes good, heady and clean, and maybe it’s just that Nash is as starving as he is hard up but he finds himself sucking too hard to be just make-believe.

“So that’s what the bishops taught you,” Seed says, and the ragged cadence of his voice, with a forward pulse just like his hips, sets Nash’s shoulders twitching, tightening. “You’re made for this, pretty boy. Is that how they test out those Guild guns of yours? I bet they make you take them in your mouth just like this.”

_I never said I was Guild,_ Nash can’t say, but it’s better to let him assume. 

“Man, those bishops must’ve loved you. I bet they kept you on your knees for days. Bet they still love you, just not as much as when you were a tyke. I don’t even have to tell you to tighten up. Is your ass anything like your mouth?” He threads his hand through Nash’s hair, pulls him back enough that Nash strains to fill this throat back up again. “I asked you a question, pretty boy. Is your ass anything like your mouth?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Nash coughs.

“What, you don’t suck your own?” Seed laughs and thrusts back in, and Nash tastes that laughter clear as salt. “Aw, Culgan, the rumors aren’t true. First Class citizens can’t bend themselves in half.”

“A shame,” Culgan says over Nash’s shoulders, and the sword doesn’t waver at all.

“That’s just what I was thinking. But hands and knees’ll do, if you want to fuck him.”

Something curdles in Nash’s throat at the prospect. It might be want. It might not.

“That won’t be necessary,” Culgan says, and since the first thing Nash feels at those words isn’t relief, it’s anticipation, he seriously has to wonder just how long it’s been and what the hell else he’ll grow to find acceptable on the road. The sword circles Nash’s neck -- it’s a near thing, when the bulge in his throat stutters and swells around Seed’s cock -- and comes to rest on his bare shoulder. “I think his mouth’s got enough room for both of us.”

Nash’s eyes flare open, just enough to see Seed’s smirk and the long, hard line of Culgan’s sword, held nonchalantly in one hand while he works at his pants with the other. It’s -- well it’s not quite frightful, just strange, and new, and no, who is Nash kidding, he’s quite understandably terrified.

Both of them. At once. In a position enough to force Nash and still keep him from grabbing his things and running off. And _calm_ about it.

If it weren’t so damned arousing, he’d panic. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

Seed tightens his fist in Nash’s hair, tilts him back and jams his fingers into the outline of Nash’s jaw. The pressure of Culgan’s sword lightens, but only just enough, and Nash’s mouth strains at the corner to accommodate Culgan’s cock alongside Seed’s. “I think he looks even prettier like this,” Seed says, and pulls out just enough that Culgan can strike deeper, trip Nash’s gag reflex at last. “Don’t start choking now, you’ll ruin it. And here I thought Holy Hikusaak himself must have trained that out of you.”

“Don’t toy with him,” Culgan says.

_That’s rich,_ Nash thinks, but can’t break through the haze to say.

There really are no other words for what they do than _fuck his mouth_ ; in tandem, vigorous and without compromise. Nash is undeniably hard, and most of his thoughts head in that particular direction, but the ones that don’t wonder how they manage it, whether they’ve done this before, whether all of Seed’s compliments about Nash’s tightness and slickness are true. They can’t get as deep together as Seed was on his own, but they pulse in and out like the weights on a clock, and the corners of Nash’s mouth water and twinge. He braces a fist over his groin, moves as much as Seed’s grasp and the sword will allow him.

He only remembers he’s supposed to be _planning_ and _escaping_ and _being a good spy_ when Culgan comes down his throat.

Seed’s not far behind, but lets loose on Nash’s face instead, hot and dripping through Nash’s hair. It is a testimony to Nash’s presence of mind, what little of it is left, that he doesn’t balk or flinch and accidentally slit his own throat on Culgan’s sword.

Leaves crunch under Nash’s knees, and he slumps forward as much as he’s able, braces himself on his fists in the dirt.

Seed pants, and smirks, and pats the welt on Nash’s cheek. “Think we roughed him up enough, Culgan?”

“Enough,” Culgan agrees, already refastening his pants.

“You sure we can’t keep him?”

“If we took him back to the Prince we wouldn’t keep him for long.”

It’s strange to consider, but those words are as precious information as Nash has ever gotten, anywhere or anyhow.

“You’re probably right,” Seed says, and rakes his hand through Nash’s sticky hair before shoving him back onto his haunches. “Looks like this is your lucky day, pretty boy. You’ll live to suck another cock.”

There is probably something better for Nash to say than “That’s a dubious honor if I ever had one,” but, well, that’s what comes out, hoarse and raw and clinging on the come he’s swallowed.

Seed laughs. “Just give the uniform back and you might have that dubious honor again.”

Nash is all too happy to comply. He forks over the rest of the Highland uniform, and Culgan hands back the swords and Nash’s traveling clothes.

“Run,” Culgan says.

Nash doesn’t even put on his shoes, just gathers the clothes in his arms and leaps the first bridge he comes to. There is no way in however many hells there are that he’ll stick around this forest any longer.

Oh, sure, it’ll amuse the bishop. And whoever else hears of it, for that matter. And it _worked_ , which amuses Nash enough to keep him running. He might even repeat the experience without duress, the next chance he gets.

Maybe it does get easier. Or maybe he’s the one that gets easy, when everything else gets hard.

This is no time for puns. He still doesn’t know which way Greenhill is.

And he’s not wearing any pants.

***


End file.
